


Season of Change

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autumn, F/M, Pre-Series, Seasonal Gifts, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bedannibalprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 03:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12334176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “Do you enjoy this season, Doctor?” he asks unexpectedly.“Yes, I do,” she admits honestly. Yet she does not think she is compromising herself by revealing such a trivial fact; he cannot really use it to his advantage.





	Season of Change

“Did something capture your attention?”

Bedelia addresses her patient from the opposite side of the room. Instead of taking his usual seat, Hannibal stands by the tall window, his eyes focused on the view outside.

“I was simply admiring the autumnal landscape,” he replies, still looking ahead.

The fading auburn sun illuminates part of Hannibal’s face, casting a shadow on the rest; a fitting analogy of their ongoing sessions which reveal more and more of the man each week, but the full picture remains unclear.

Bedelia stands next to him, following his gaze. The space outside the window is luscious with the colours of the season; gold and copper foliage, glistening with triumphant vividness of red, setting the world aflame and contrasting with the blue sky, so clear you can drown in it.

“It is the most beautiful season,” Hannibal continues, “And a perfect metaphor of life. It is a time of decline, but also of an intense and haunting beauty. Everything bursts with splendour, living to the fullest.”

He turns to look at her as she considers this befitting allegory; it is something she has considered herself, comparing human disposition to nature.

“Live as if every moment was your last,” she concludes his observation.

“Exactly,” he beams at her and she has no doubt that these words reflect his personal philosophy. She cannot say the same for herself.

“Do you enjoy this season, Doctor?” he asks unexpectedly.

“Yes, I do,” she admits honestly. Hannibal’s desire to learn about her appears to be as strong as her aspiration to know him, but he is treading carefully within the lines set by their respective roles. Yet she does not think she is compromising herself by revealing such a trivial fact; he cannot really use it to his advantage.

 

Hannibal has become as much of a constant in her life as she is in his, reminiscent of changing of the seasons. But just like the Indian summer, he remains unpredictable and full of surprises, something she should have known better by now.

Always perfectly on time, the knock on the door announces the hour of their meeting. Bedelia answers the door and is startled to come face to face with her patient and an elaborate bouquet in his hands. Without a word, she lets him in and closes the door behind them, before her eyes fall on him in an unspoken but obvious question.

“A small arrangement for your table,” he explains at once, “In keeping with the current season.”

Her eyes shift to rest on the centrepiece; a vase filled with red and yellow roses, sunflowers, orange leaves and rowanberries. A pair of antlers surrounds the composition.

“You really shouldn’t have, Hannibal,” Bedelia keeps her tone calm, but strict, “You are my patient.”

“But I am also your colleague,” Hannibal retorts at once, “And I would love to share my adoration for the season with someone who can truly appreciate it.”

They have repeated those lines so many times, the words have lost their meaning; Bedelia doubts they ever had any.

“Perhaps it is a bit too much,” he continues, looking at her with uncertainty, “Not fitting with your décor.”

“No, it is beautiful,” his taste cannot be faulted, “Thank you.” She takes the bouquet from his hands and places it on the hallway table.

A smiles blooms on his lips at her acceptance of his gift, one she should not care about, but she enjoys seeing it. There is something in the nature of his smile she cannot quite pin down; she often wondered if others saw it too. Or maybe it is reserved for her alone.

They proceed to her office and the hour passes rather ordinarily as Hannibal recalls the events of his week. Afterwards, Bedelia offers him the new vintage of red she had obtained and he gladly accepts.

Upon his departure, she gazes at his gift once more, marvelling at the work that was put into making it. She carries it into the office, removing the usual vase of flowers and putting the centrepiece in its place.

 

“It fits well,” Hannibal says as he enters the room the following week and his eyes rest on the table.

“Yes,” Bedelia waits for him to take his seat, before sitting down herself, “Thank you.”

Another smile pulls at his lips as he cannot hide his contentment of seeing his gift displayed so proudly.

Perhaps it was not wise to accept his offering, but she is fond of its image. It is so uniquely his; fresh flowers and bones, beauty in both life and death. Bedelia enjoys seeing the world through his eyes.

 

“Red or white?” the usual question ends their session and slightly loosens its boundaries.

“I have brought a drink of my own,” Hannibal says tentatively, “if you don’t mind.”

Bedelia could fall back to their usual verbal exchange, but they both know the outcome. Besides, as hard as it is for her to admit it, especially to herself, she is curious about it. She is curious about him.

“No, I don’t,” she replies and Hannibal nods before leaving the room and Bedelia to her own conflicting thoughts.

She expects a bottle of wine, no doubt an exquisite vintage, but instead Hannibal returns with an unlabelled bottle containing a bright red liquid. The bottom of the bottle is filled with berries.

“A raspberry infusion,” he explains, opening the bottle with a proper flair, “An old family recipe, passed on from my great-grandmother.”

Bedelia observes in silence as he takes the glasses and pours the carmine liquid. The sweet smell of fruit fills the air, mixed with a distinctive aroma of alcohol.

“Is it strong?” she asks with caution, not wanting to compromise the clarity of her mind.

“Stronger than wine,” he replies with a gleam in his eyes, “It needs to be kept in a cold and dark place for at least three months for the drink to be just right. It has to be clear and a perfect shade of red.” He lifts the glass and swirls the liquid, inspecting it closely before offering it to Bedelia.

“The best things cannot be rushed,” his voice softens as he extends his hand to her. She accepts the glass and his fingers linger on her skin for a moment longer than necessary, leaving a lasting impression of warmth. Bedelia takes a generous sip, tasting the sugary flavour of the berries on her tongue, followed by a fervent feel of alcohol in a back of her throat, one that is more than welcome at this moment.

“It’s wonderful,” she comments, savouring the unusual drink.

“It is perfect for cold evenings,” he continues, pouring a glass for himself, “When people feel the first yearnings to sit together by a fire.”

Hannibal watches her expectantly, but Bedelia does not comment, taking another sip of her drink. The feeling of his heated skin against hers conjures visions of the warmth of his embrace; she dismisses them at once. Heat rises to her cheeks and she tells herself it is merely the alcohol.

They enjoy their drinks in silence and Hannibal departs, leaving her with the rest of the bottle and an unquiet mind.

 

As another week passes and the hour of their session approaches, Bedelia is filled with anticipation. She knows his gifts should not be encouraged, but she cannot help herself.

And he does not come emptyhanded; Bedelia opens the door to find her patient holding a pumpkin. Hannibal smiles and her eyebrow arches slowly at this unforeseen turn of events.

“I have noticed you do not have a pumpkin,” Hannibal is not waiting for her to ask the question as he enters the hallway.

“I do not celebrate Halloween,” she responds sharply, somehow disappointed with the gift that should not exist in a first place, “It is a commercial holiday.” The sound of the closing door emphasises her annoyance.

“I agree,” Hannibal is not discouraged by her reaction, “But the tradition goes back to ancient Celtic cultures who carved turnips to ward off evil spirits.”

“I am familiar with the tradition, Hannibal,” she retorts, cutting his explanation short, “I did not take you for a superstitious type.”

“I am not,” he chuckles at the thought, “But it is a beautiful custom, one that encourages creativity and art.”

The mention of art sparks her interest anew, but before she gets a chance to see what sort of a creature Hannibal Lecter would carve into the pumpkin, he walks pass her and enters her office.

The pumpkin is placed by the window as Hannibal magically procures a tealight and a box of matches. He lights the candle and plants it inside the hollow space.

“There, perfect,” he is pleased with his work and moves aside, letting her see the full display.

Bedelia steps in front of the pumpkin and gasps loudly. Instead of a grotesque mask, the face looking back at her is her own. Hannibal had carved her profile into the skin with detailed precision and the resemblance is remarkable. She did not think such accuracy could be achieved on a such fragile canvas. Or that he knew her features so well.

“This is- “she does not know what to say, suspended between disbelief and amazement, “This is incredible, Hannibal.”

“I am glad you like it,” he responds simply as though he offered her a card or a flower, not an intricate portrait of her. On a pumpkin.

“But weren’t the carvings meant to be scary to repel the evil spirits? I did not realise my face was frightening,” she purposely shifts the conversation in an attempt to regaining her composure.

“Of course, it is not,” he responds at once, “As you said, Doctor, it was all unfounded belief.”

“But I could think of no one more appropriate than the person who keeps my own demons away,” the unexpected honesty in his words renders her speechless once more.

The sun begins to set outside the window, enveloping them both in an orange glow, and she watches the flickering candle illuminating her carved visage. Suddenly, the season does feel like a conclusion. This is not an ending, but a beginning. She does not know yet what will follow, but she is certain it will be anything but ordinary.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to kmo for letting me run with the pumpkin idea. ♥ I have already written a headcanon about Bedelia liking autumn, but Hannibal definitely brings it out in her further. This is their season.


End file.
